


That Colossally Awkward Moment When Mycroft Was Naked

by stepstostars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepstostars/pseuds/stepstostars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those awkward (and not awkward) moments when Mycroft was naked.</p><p>Lestrade finds himself incredibly flustered. Anthea, used to these type of shenanigans, takes it all in stride. Irene is mildly impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Colossally Awkward Moment When Mycroft Was Naked

**Author's Note:**

> fill for the meme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=92186134#t92186134
> 
> More crack, hooray! Though it was written earlier, I finally found a reason why Mycroft was naked. It was important to figure that point out first, okay?

**that awkward moment when Mycroft scores with his little brother’s pet detective**

  
"Excuse me, is this—holy, dear God, what."  
  
Mycroft can practically  _hear_  the man's brain stuttering to a feeble stop. He sighs, puts on his best polite smile, and turns around, arching an eyebrow, "Yes?"  
  
"Er—" The man's voice wavers, eyes flickering around the room, hands crumpling the pages he holds—obviously uncomfortable and unsure about what to do. He's rather handsome—nice features, deep brown eyes, elegant fingers, messy gray hair all lending him a sort of rugged, yet distinguished look, "I can leave so you can—"  
  
People  _did_  have such incredibly delicate sensibilities. He's still in his underwear, nothing fantastical. Quite boring, really. "No, no, if it's important enough for you to rush in without knocking, Detective Inspector," because it  _is_  Sherlock's pet detective staring at the floor in extreme agitation, "then please report. I can listen while I change, really."  
  
"It'd really be easier if you'd just put on your trousers, Mr. Holmes," says Detective...Lestrade, if Mycroft remembers correctly—which he always does. At least he sounds a tad bit more comfortable, now. Still a bit thick, though, he expected more from Sherlock's favorite.  
  
"I know this might come off as a surprise, Detective Inspector," Mycroft sighs, "but I'm changing in my  _office._  I believe that might make a statement about how much free time I have to loiter."  
  
Lestrade bristles, but nods, "Fine. Just—could you stand behind the desk or something?"  
  
Mycroft's eyebrow jumps up again, "Would that make things go more quickly?"  
  
"Yes, yes it would."  
  
He sighs again, and walks over to his desk, pulling off his tie and working on a few buttons on his shirt as he does. "Better?" he asks over his shoulder.  
  
"Immensely. Thank you."  
  
There's silence for a moment as he unfastens five more buttons, before he looks up again. Lestrade's absently licking his lips, eyes fixated on Mycroft's fingers. "Your report, Detective Inspector?" He asks, slightly amused as he watches Lestrade jump to attention.  
  
"Right! I—yes, er, Sherlock." Lestrade flushes red—fascinating, "He left me a letter to deliver to you. Said that the case was too boring for him, but you'd be interested in it." He shrugs, a weary indication of his resignation to Sherlock's irritating ways, " 'National importance', he said."  
  
The shirt's off now, neatly folded on his chair, and he's working his undershirt off. "I expect you brought the case file, then? Just read me the salient details first. Oh, and Sherlock's letter, if you would."  
  
Cheeks still a fiery red, Lestrade takes a hesitant step forward before he seems to shake off his anxiety, walking toward him and placing the envelope securely in his hand. Mycroft purposely drags his fingers across Lestrade's when taking the envelope, enjoying the brief touch of warm skin and the tremble that runs through Lestrade's arm.  
  
At least he's isolated Lestrade's source of embarrassment.  
  
Lestrade coughs, arm snapping back as if burnt, face burning a brighter red, "Right. Er. Case. The victim's name was—wait, you aren't—"  
  
His briefs are off, tidily placed on top of his shirt and tie, and Mycroft looks up at Lestrade with the most innocent look he can muster. "Yes?"  
  
"You—" Lestrade looks like he's about to swallow his tongue, "Your underwear—" His mouth closes with an audible snap, Adam's apple bobbing, "What."  
  
"You really must work on your coherency, Detective Inspector," tuts Mycroft, slitting the envelope with one smooth glide. Lestrade makes a noise akin to a squeak. The letter is simple; high-quality paper (probably snatched from the Yard printer), cheap ball-point pen (most likely Lestrade's, considering), the large scrawling script Sherlock uses when he's annoyed at Mycroft.  
  


_Try not to break him; he's the only one with any real potential.  
SH_

  
Mycroft smiles; Sherlock's abilities  _are_  getting better if he’s predicted this. He's almost proud of his little brother.  
  
"Right." Lestrade coughs again. His voice is a little raspy and his face still red, but he's apparently determined to make his report professionally.  
  
Pity, Mycroft did enjoy seeing Lestrade squirm.  
  
"Victim, Archer Brooks, thirty-six years old, died in his apartment on the fifteenth; cause of death, asphyxiation; no signs of a break-in or struggle, no note—"  
  
"What was he wearing? What else was in the room?" interrupts Mycroft, mind whirring into action—it had been so long since he'd had a fun puzzle.  
  
"Er," Lestrade blinks, obviously not expecting the question, "Green shirt, jeans—"  
  
"Nevermind. You have pictures, correct?" He sweeps around the desk to Lestrade's side, easily sliding the file from his frozen fingers. A single scan gives him all the information he needs. "His downstairs neighbor. The scarf will most likely be in the victim's laundry. Or possibly in the dumpster, if he panicked. I must request that you let one of my subordinates look over any evidence you've collected, as well as the flat itself. There may be some...compromising information at stake."  
  
Lestrade remains silent. Mycroft frowns, glancing up, only to realise the Detective Inspector is busy staring  _down._  
  
Ah.  
  
"I—right, yeah. Will do," Lestrade finally makes out, eyes dragging themselves to meet Mycroft's amused ones, "Just let me know who and when." He continues to stand there, looking dazed and confused, and Mycroft can't help himself.  
  
"Problem, Detective Inspector?"  
  
"No, no, of course not." Lestrade's eyes make another slow glide down Mycroft's body again, before he wrenches them back up to Mycroft's.   
  
Mycroft simply raises an eyebrow, smile a smooth arc on his face. He looks down at the noticeable bulge in Lestrade's pants. "Oh?"  
  
Lestrade flushes deeper, realising he's been trapped—has been caught this whole time. "Well—"  
  
Mycroft steps in closer, leaning in to purr into Lestrade's ear. "Let me help you with that,  _Gregory_."  
  
Gregory shudders.

 

**that awkward moment when Anthea is just used to seeing her boss naked**

 

Anthea walks in with the files for his next appointment fifteen minutes after he and Gregory are done. She glances at Gregory, curled up on the couch in his office, a blanket covering most of him up, before looking back to Mycroft, still completely naked (albeit with a few more bruises and scratches than before), sitting at his desk reading the paper.  
  
She raises an eyebrow. “I assume I’m correct in believing that this is what replaced your eleven o’clock?”  
  
He smiles, taking the papers she hands him, “Yes, much more pertinent.”  
  
“And interesting, I imagine. He’s not quite your usual type.”  
  
He shrugs, “But much more satisfactory. He’s—different.” He frowns to himself, realising he’s not quite sure exactly what  _was_  different. Maybe there was some merit to Sherlock’s interest, if even Mycroft can’t figure Gregory out.  
  
She flashes him a knowing smile, “A keeper, then.”  
  
“Possibly.” He waves a hand, “Go ahead, there’s no longer anything barring your interest in his Detective Sergeant.”  
  
Anthea’s smile widens, “Have a lovely afternoon, sir.”

 

**that awkward moment when Mycroft countered Irene with her own weapon**

 

The door clicks shut with a small thud. Mycroft doesn’t bother turning around, already knowing the identity of his visitor.

“You rescheduled our appointment, I’m almost insulted,” says the voice; feminine, confident, everything he expected and more.

“Ah, Ms. Adler, how lovely to finally make your acquaintance.” He turns around to face her, tumbler of scotch in hand. As Mycroft predicted, she’s naked and impossible to read—fully _the woman_ —the enigma, the puzzle.

“Mr. Holmes.” She has one eyebrow arched up, eyes darting around the room, obviously trying to read him through his belongings. It won’t work, the room has been scraped of all personality—a calculated maneuver on Mycroft’s part. Her eyes finally move back to his face, gaze focusing to match an equally sharp smile, “Fascinating approach, you’ve taken.”

“I figured it would be suiting, considering the occasion.” Mycroft offers his own incredibly insincere smile. “Scotch?”

She ignores the question, instead waving a hand at Gregory’s sleeping form on the couch. “I never took you to be a man who put off business for pleasure, Mr. Holmes.”

He shrugs. “It was a… _special_ occasion, you might say.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_.” Her tone is lascivious and dripping with innuendo, but the inflection drops out of her voice with ease. “Now, to business, shall we?”


End file.
